


Strain

by draculard



Category: Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Angry Sex, Angst, Breathplay, Choking, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hate Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, M/M, Masturbation, No Lube, Non-Consensual Gentle Sex, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Sharing a Bed, Suicidal Ideation, Touch-Starved, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, implied/referenced eating disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28203762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Elasticity, (n).a measure of the strain on an object when stress is applied.Pellaeon's starting to think there's nothing in the galaxy that Thrawn can't adapt to.
Relationships: Gilad Pellaeon/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo
Comments: 32
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr, I'm draculard there too

Thrawn doesn’t try to stop him.

Later, when the self-doubt and recriminations set in, this will be Pellaeon’s only way to reassure himself: that Thrawn doesn’t try to stop him, and he knows that if Thrawn wanted to, he could.

It starts with an argument, like always — the Solo twins and C’baoth, the steady stream of disagreements and stress, all of it boiling over at once and making them clash — but it ends with tempers flashing, raised voices, trust strained. They come together before Pellaeon realizes it; part of him can't believe it's _him_ who steps forward, him who moves first while Thrawn, closed-off, face cold, stays where he is, doesn't even lean into Pellaeon's touch. His fingers tighten around Thrawn’s wrist in an iron grip, a grip that isn’t just meant to get his attention or make him shut up, but is actively insubordinate, deliberately hurtful.

A glint in Thrawn’s eye. Anger. A silent warning.

A warning Pellaeon chooses to ignore.

Now here they are: Thrawn’s tunic torn open at the seam; Thrawn’s hair in disarray where Pellaeon uses it as a handhold to yank his head back, to hold him still; Thrawn’s back hard and tense against his stomach, his thighs trembling with strain as Pellaeon holds him down. The only sounds he makes, from start to finish, are barely audible gasps.

He doesn’t fight — his elbow connects with Pellaeon's ribs hard enough to hurt but not disable, and Pellaeon's boot comes down hard on the back of his thigh, pinning him down, but they are soldiers above all else, and these minor infractions — bruises, blood — can hardly be classed as 'fighting.' It's foreplay; it's plausible deniability; it's the adrenaline rush of a successful hunt. Thrawn doesn’t say no or order Pellaeon to stop. 

(His fingers curl in the fabric of Pellaeon’s tunic, pulling him close, then pushing him away.)

(He makes no effort to unbutton his trousers, lets Pellaeon tug them down just enough to enter him but doesn’t spread his legs.)

It’s over too soon; it’s good for him — adequate, maybe even satisfying, maybe even _enjoyable_ beneath the sting of his bruises, the burn of friction and pent-up rage — but he’ll never convince himself entirely that it’s good for Thrawn. He makes no attempt to touch Thrawn, to squeeze his cock through the fabric of his trousers or press his lips against the exposed skin of his neck. He doesn't taste the salt on his skin, scarcely notices the heat of Thrawn's body beneath his hands. But he feels Thrawn's back against his chest and knows from the unsteady shifting of his shoulders that he's catching his breath, and when Pellaeon finishes and pulls away, rearranging his uniform and coming to his senses, he sees the wet spot on Thrawn’s trousers over the head of his cock, can tell by the still-visible outline that Thrawn is coming down from a state of arousal — the exact degree of which, the intensity, is unclear.

Later, he’ll try to use this knowledge — the stain, the evidence of a fading erection — to justify his actions to himself. He wipes his face, his lip stinging where Thrawn's skull collided with his mouth. Thrawn turns around, the picture of violated dignity, his uniform torn and his head held high; his shoulders straight, his posture defiant even as he sits huddled against the bulkhead, his back to the wall. Thrawn’s eyes bore into his, his face unreadable but not inviting. He is waiting, Pellaeon realizes, for his captain to leave.

 _Ridiculous,_ Pellaeon thinks. _If he wants me to leave, why doesn’t he order me to go?_

And then, when this thought doesn’t comfort him the way it should, _He kissed me back,_ Pellaeon thinks. He repeats it to himself wildly, trying to stop the sudden sickening hammering of his heart: _He kissed me back._

His eyes skitter down to Thrawn’s bloody nose, to his torn uniform, to the way his body still shakes — a coiled catlike rage, adrenaline, a suppressed desire to strike out, injure, kill. Uneasily, Pellaeon edits his thoughts: not rage, and certainly not fear. Desire.

And then, because that doesn't comfort him, either: _If Thrawn wanted me to stop, he would have said so._

But he doesn’t stick around to wait for an order; somehow, he knows one isn’t coming, and part of him suspects he’s broken the system, torn down their rank structure in a way he never meant to, a way that horrifies him more than any violence ever could.

He turns and goes, and leaves Thrawn alone on the command room floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a remix of a long-lost Star Wars fic I last read on Livejournal in 2005. The basic gist of that one was that Major Tierce led Pellaeon into what he thought was a consensual BDSM scene, with Thrawn as a nonverbal sub; in reality, Thrawn had been drugged and it was rape, but it started a long dubcon relationship that was all sorts of fun to read. If anyone remembers the name/has links to the original fic, please let me know!


	2. Chapter 2

All that’s audible is the hum of the _Chimaera’s_ drive and the quiet electric crackle of Thrawn’s holos. He’s absorbed in his artwork, not sitting in his command chair like usual, but leaning over the back of it instead. Up close, the light is dim enough that Pellaeon can’t tell if his cheek has bruised; the blue glow of the holo mixes with the paler tone of Thrawn’s skin, disguising any discoloration Pellaeon might have been able to pick out.

He clicks his heels, clears his throat. Thrawn’s eyes remain fixed on the artwork before him. 

“Yes, Captain?” His voice is measured, the tone unreadable. 

“Sir, the Noghri commando squad has returned from its latest assignment,” says Pellaeon; he has the preliminary reports and all relevant data pulled up on his datapad, in case Thrawn needs it, but Thrawn’s hands stay curled lightly over the back of the chair, and after a moment, Pellaeon darkens the screen and lets the datapad fall to his side. “They have nothing urgent to report, but they’re awaiting your presence in the forward starboard-one conference room for debrief, at your convenience,” he says. 

Thrawn says nothing in reply — if past experience has taught Pellaeon anything, this type of silence means an art lecture is coming. He gives the holo before Thrawn a quick wash of scrutiny, trying to take in as many variegated details as possible before Thrawn tries to lead him to a conclusion; the art piece is a fiber sculpture, not a prized art form in Imperial circles but common enough in planets of the Mid and Outer Rim. Pellaeon rushes to scan everything, certain that he’ll only make it halfway through his preliminary study before Thrawn asks his first question — but then he reaches the end and Thrawn still hasn't spoken. Pellaeon recalibrates, going over the sculpture more slowly now, his pace of study more relaxed, more thorough.

And by the third time he’s scanned the sculpture, Thrawn has still said nothing, his eyes far away.

“Sir?” Pellaeon asks.

“You have something further to tell me,” Thrawn prompts. 

“I was waiting for you, sir,” says Pellaeon. He gestures to the sculpture. “I thought—”

The gesture brings his hand close to Thrawn’s elbow, and with a smooth and absent-minded grace, Thrawn steps to the other side of the command chair, casually putting its bulk between them. Or maybe — because the thought of Thrawn avoiding him isn’t something Pellaeon wants to consider — maybe he’s only looking at the artwork from a different angle.

In any case, they aren’t here to discuss art. In the ensuing silence, with Thrawn’s prompt weighing on his mind, Pellaeon finds himself mentally stumbling back and forth from the night before. The sentences he’d constructed so carefully in his head last night coalesce on his tongue, dissolve there, leave a sour coating on the back of his teeth. He wants to say _nothing_ , but that’s not how he does things. He wants to promise it won’t happen again, but…

...but he remembers the heat of Thrawn’s body against his, the evidence of release on Thrawn’s trousers that showed he’d come untouched, that proved he’d liked it, too.

“I came to apologize as well, sir,” he forces himself to say. His voice comes out gruff; he doesn’t allow himself to glance down at his feet.

“Oh?” says Thrawn, meeting his eyes.

“For last night,” Pellaeon explains.

Thrawn’s face is blank; he waits for Pellaeon to go on.

“For the argument we had,” Pellaeon says. Something flickers in Thrawn’s eyes — it’s impossible to say what — and his eyelids lower a little until he seems even more closed-off than before. “I indulged in behavior unfit for an Imperial officer, sir. I lost my temper.”

“Indeed?” Thrawn murmurs, breaking eye contact to stare at his artwork instead. The woven sculpture rotates before him, showing off every rough fiber stitched into the beautiful whole. “You’ve never apologized for that before, Captain.”

Is that an admonishment, or is it Thrawn’s way of saying no apology is necessary? Pellaeon studies his face but can find no answer there. Beyond the question of apology, he searches for any hint of how Thrawn feels — of encouragement or regret — about the night before. He hesitates — would never be so forward, normally — but can see no other way to get the answers he needs.

"For disagreeing with you in general, then," Pellaeon amends. Thrawn shakes this apology off like an irritating stingfly. “And I’d like to apologize for my performance as well,” Pellaeon says finally, and his voice is no longer gruff; it comes out crisp and clear. “Some mistakes were made. I’d appreciate the chance to correct them.”

His eyes shift over Thrawn’s face, watching for any telltale twitch of the lips, or roll of the eyes, or subtle flexing of muscles in his jaw. He sees nothing; glancing down at Thrawn's chest, Pellaeon can't even tell if he's breathing. He raises his hand until he can just barely touch the cuff of Thrawn’s sleeve; the warmth of his fingers teases a sliver of bare skin between Thrawn’s wrist and his glove.

Thrawn doesn’t glance at Pellaeon. He says nothing in response to the apology; his eyes are already fixed on the sculpture again.

But he leans into the touch.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s not the first time Thrawn refuses to explain his plans — and it’s not the first time Pellaeon feels the warm sting of frustration on his cheeks as yet again, he fails to see precisely what their TIEs are doing until it’s so abundantly clear that he’s certain any of the ensigns on the bridge could grasp it. He glances sideways at Thrawn — eyes hooded, face calm — as the skirmish wears to an end with each of Thrawn’s seemingly-suicidal maneuvers paying off. He does this on purpose; leaves Pellaeon in the dark to teach him how to think like a tactician, or to amuse himself, or to prove a point. Pellaeon tells himself it's the first option only, can't quite convince himself to stop thinking about the second and third.

“You noticed the clusters of optical-discharge lenses on the leading edges of each ship?” Thrawn murmurs.

“Yes,” Pellaeon says. He lets some irritation bleed into his voice, sees Thrawn’s chin tilt downward slightly in acknowledgment.

“And what did you make of them?” Thrawn asks.

“They were small,” Pellaeon says, “but that doesn’t mean much with lasers.” He turns toward the sensor officer. “Power output on the lens clusters?” he barks across the bridge.

He watches the lieutenant hesitate, eyes flickering from Pellaeon to Thrawn as if to emphasize who’s really in charge. “Inconclusive, sir,” he says. “I’m not getting any leakage.”

Pellaeon absorbs this, turns to face Thrawn. “Then they’re using a superconducting cable,” he says, thinking aloud. “Or some manner of advanced shielding, the sort only highly-funded fleets can afford. Yet their tactics…”

“Indeed,” says Thrawn, casting an eye toward the blackened wreckage of Rebel-adjacent ships outside. He pushes himself out of his chair. “Walk with me, Captain.”

Down the hall, their conversation continues in a series of mutters, Thrawn walking himself through the probabilities — a fragment of the Rebellion, he suspects, embezzling funds to support a navy with little practical experience, likely the Bothans — while Pellaeon pretends to listen. His thoughts drift back toward the bridge, to the calm, unruffled way Thrawn handles every attack, to the cool superiority in his gaze when he talks to Pellaeon, when he leads him to the right conclusions like a schoolteacher leading a favorite student. 

And then his thoughts slip further: to Thrawn struggling against him on the command room floor; to Thrawn submitting beneath him, his body going limp; to the soft, strangled sounds he’d made that couldn’t really be called moans, to the shaking gasps that had stuttered past his lips when Pellaeon touched him.

Thrawn’s low-tone musings don’t go any further; Pellaeon’s hand shoots up and twists in his hair, and he uses the full force of his weight to drive him against the wall. His hand absorbs most of the impact of Thrawn’s skull against the bulkhead, but not all of it, and he hears the click of teeth a moment before he claims his lips with his own.

Thrawn doesn’t kiss him back; his lips remain closed and cold beneath Pellaeon’s, soft but unresponsive. He draws back, takes in Thrawn’s unimpressed face, his relaxed muscles (as if he’s not being held here, but simply decided to stand with his back pressed uncomfortably against the wall), his squared shoulders.

Looking Pellaeon in the eye, their faces so close that their lips are almost touching, Thrawn says, “I don’t have time for this.”

Pellaeon’s fingers tighten reflexively, jerking Thrawn’s head up a little, and the admiral’s eyes narrow in what might be anger, impatience, or pain. 

“You want this,” Pellaeon says. Their chests are almost touching, and Pellaeon leans closer, drawn as if by magnetism to Thrawn’s body heat. His free hand brushes against Thrawn’s hip, the hard muscle of his thigh; a flick of his fingers brushes Thrawn’s tunic aside just enough to trace the outline of his cock. He doesn’t palm it, doesn’t squeeze; just lets the tip of his finger skim over it so lightly that he can almost pretend it wasn’t done on purpose — and if Thrawn were a different type of man, he might be able to pretend it didn’t happen, that Pellaeon can’t feel the swell of arousal between his legs.

Thrawn studies his face, jaw tight, eyes cold. He makes a decision:

“Not here.”

Pellaeon doesn’t let go immediately; he backs up slowly, his fingers tangled in Thrawn’s hair and tugging his head forward slowly, using each sharp bite of pain to bring him one step farther from the wall. Thrawn’s face hardens with every jerk of Pellaeon’s hand, and when they reach the center of the passageway, Pellaeon looks into his eyes and realizes, for the first time ever, that he’s never seen Thrawn’s cold rage aimed directly at him.

It makes his heart beat faster. He can't tell the difference between excitement and fear.

His grip tightens; he watches Thrawn’s eyes narrow, knows Thrawn could break his grip in a heartbeat — knows that Thrawn _wants_ to — and yet the admiral only stands there, his chest rising and falling in quick, deep breaths, his tension vibrating through every muscle, his reflexes held at bay. If he keeps it up — keeps fighting with his instincts — he'll only embarrass himself. Pellaeon's seen it a hundred times in battle, knows what it looks like when someone wants to fight or run and can't allow themselves to do either. There's a third option Thrawn doesn't want to recognize: surrender. He tugs sharply on the handful of blue-black hair, watches Thrawn suppress a wince.

And then, before the pain has faded, he lets go of Thrawn’s hair and drags his hand down until his palm is resting on his cheek, and Thrawn — eyes flickering, jaw tight — snarls at him but involuntarily leans into the touch. 

Pellaeon smiles at him. “Where, then?” he says. “Your quarters? Or is that too far?”

He sees something close to hatred in Thrawn’s eyes as he pulls away, but if it were hatred, then Thrawn would be pulling away, too — not standing stock-still in the middle of the passageway as if frozen, his hands curled into fists at his side, his cock half-hard and visible through his pants. He refuses to answer Pellaeon’s question.

“I’ll lead,” Pellaeon says. He moves before Thrawn can shoot him down, guiding him down the passageway with one hand on the small of Thrawn’s back, warm and broad and disarming. He feels Thrawn’s muscles twitch beneath his hand before settling, still tense, but not actively fighting him off.

When he reaches an empty room Pellaeon doesn’t hesitate to hit the release; his touch turns from gentle to harsh as he pushes Thrawn forward, but if he hoped to see Thrawn stumble, he’s disappointed. Pellaeon’s push is too slow, his fingertips barely brushing Thrawn’s back as he whirls around, eyes sharp, his nose mere centimeters from Pellaeon’s.

“ _What?_ ” Pellaeon bites out, refusing to back down now. He makes himself large, glaring back at Thrawn, invading his personal space as much as Thrawn is invading his. 

A growl — a flurry of motion too fast to follow — an open-handed blow to the ear. Pellaeon twists one hand in Thrawn’s tunic as he falls, barely hearing his own bark of pain; one boot shoots out by reflex, the hard edge of the sole striking Thrawn’s shin at an angle sharp enough to draw blood.

And then they’re both on the floor, Thrawn’s legs spread to either side of Pellaeon’s hips, his hands on his throat, his face pale and pinched with rage.

His erection rubbing against Pellaeon’s thigh. 

Pellaeon feels the biting pressure of Thrawn's thumbs pinching his pulse point, squeezing too fast, too hard for this to be pleasant — and he's already seeing black static in front of his eyes when he grabs Thrawn’s collar and pulls him down for a kiss. The hands around his neck loosen; their teeth clash, a taste of blood and salt on Pellaeon’s lips, Thrawn’s kiss so harsh that it almost hurts — and while he’s distracted, Pellaeon takes the chance to return that blow from either, knocking Thrawn over the ear with a brutal burst of power and throwing him to the floor.

He’s got Thrawn pinned before he realizes what he’s doing. He’s watching Thrawn’s chest heave, his eyes glittering, as Pellaeon reaches for the sealing strip on that pristine white tunic and pulls it down. Thrawn’s cock is fully hard now, straining at the front of his pants; he's being held down, with all of Pellaeon's weight crushing down against his shoulder and abdomen, but he makes no attempt to throw the other man off him.

Because whether he realizes it or not, Thrawn _wants_ to be touched — so that’s what Pellaeon gives him.

Slow touches. Teasing touches. The uniform removed so slowly that the fabric whispers over Thrawn’s skin, making him shiver and press himself into the floor as though trying to escape. His fingers close around Pellaeon’s wrist, trying to stop him; a moment later, when Pellaeon dips his fingers under Thrawn’s waistband, that iron grip loosens, that hand shifts to his hip and clings to Pellaeon’s tunic instead.

Shudders. Wide eyes, sometimes so startled by how Pellaeon touches him that he seems almost afraid. Thrawn’s legs trembling, shifting farther apart, squeezing closed again when Pellaeon drags a finger up the inner thigh. 

His fingers trailing everywhere he can reach, the wet heat of his tongue against Thrawn’s skin, the caress of his hands inviting sensitivity wherever he suspects it normally isn’t felt — he trails his knuckles over Thrawn’s abdomen so lightly that he himself barely feels it, but he sees Thrawn’s muscles flinch in surprise, sees hair standing on end wherever he teases him. The harsh scrape and pressure of his teeth — the friction of his palm, his hips, grinding against Thrawn’s body — the brush of a finger over Thrawn’s hole, his lips on Thrawn’s neck — tasting, feeling, sucking, hurting— 

Thrawn gasps, a hoarse sound Pellaeon barely notices. He has his hand on Thrawn’s cock, his lips on his nipple, and he doesn’t realize there was a word inside that gasp until suddenly Thrawn’s hands are on his arms, pushing him away.

“Stop,” Thrawn repeats, still breathless, and Pellaeon chuckles, glances at him, sees the flush on his cheeks and the overwhelmed haze in his eyes, and keeps doing what he’s doing. He runs his hand down Thrawn’s side, rubs his thumb in a circle over his hip, teases him with faint touches on his inner thighs.

Thrawn’s head falls back. His cock twitches, lying flat against his belly; his legs part without his knowledge, without his approval.

And when Pellaeon places two fingers on his bottom lip, Thrawn opens his mouth willingly and starts sucking.

“You see?” Pellaeon says, amusement mixing with affection in his voice. He feels Thrawn’s tongue, hot and wet, against his fingers and feels a shudder go through him, a rising wave of tension that goes straight to his cock. He runs his thumb over Thrawn’s jaw, pulls his fingers out, slick with saliva. “You just have to keep going,” he says. "Push through the discomfort."

Thrawn has something to say to that — of course he does — but it’s lost, his voice too quiet and shaky, Pellaeon’s attention too intense on more important things. His hand slips between Thrawn’s legs, and this time he doesn’t hedge or tease; he works one finger inside him without warning, watches Thrawn’s jaw tighten, waits for him to groan.

He doesn’t. Thrawn’s eyes are open and narrow; he glares up at the ceiling with his mouth clamped shut, as if denying Pellaeon any hint of joy.

Well, Pellaeon thinks, it doesn’t matter. He likes a challenge. When he lines himself up with Thrawn and sinks inside him, he keeps his eyes on the other man’s face with a vicious glee, sees bared teeth and eyes squeezed closed in pain. His hands fall on either side of Thrawn’s chest; he leans down on one elbow, runs his fingers gently through Thrawn’s hair, tries to pretend he feels anything other than the tight heat surrounding his cock.

“Yes?” he says.

Thrawn’s eyes stay closed; he shakes his head minutely, seeming to fight against Pellaeon’s touch as much as he’s saying no. When he speaks, his voice comes through clenched teeth.

“Get off me,” he says.

Pellaeon studies his face, waiting until the overwhelming sensation of _rightness_ between them fades so he can rock his hips a little, pulling back less than an inch at a time and then easing himself back in, up to the hilt. He can see every minute flex of pain across Thrawn’s face. He can’t decide whether Thrawn craves his touch or despises it, even fears it; he can't pretend to understand why he seems so responsive to some things, so cold about others. He sees the Grand Admiral pinned beneath him, trembling and cautious, unsure what Pellaeon will do next, and finds he likes it, likes catching Thrawn off-guard. When he reaches up again to brush sweat-damp hair from Thrawn’s forehead, his knuckles brush the cheek he bruised just days before, and he sees Thrawn flinch.

But before he can process it, he hears a low growl starting in Thrawn’s throat, feels a flash of blinding pain as Thrawn’s skull smashes against his own and sends him reeling back, his cock slipping out in the process. He reaches out before his vision comes back and pins Thrawn down again, one hand on his chest, the other touching his forehead gingerly, then falling down between Thrawn’s legs, where his cock is twitching. Something warm and slick touches him — pre-cum leaking from the head, earning a gasp from Thrawn, a shudder as tension rolls through him and ends with another clear drop pushing from the slit, making Pellaeon’s skin glisten as he catches it on his thumb.

He lets his hand rest there, and when he finally manages to shake away the pain in his head, he finds Thrawn lying supine underneath him, the tension in his face gone, his breath coming fast. 

Their eyes meet: one gaze hard and cold, assessing; the other pleading, desperate for more. Thrawn’s thighs slide outward again, his hips shift, rocking his erection against the palm of Pellaeon’s hand.

Pellaeon waits, not moving, letting Thrawn rut against him until those red eyes slide closed. Only then does he move his thumb — swipe it over the head of Thrawn’s cock — trail his fingers down the shaft to Thrawn’s balls, to his hole.

His mistake, he realizes, was asking Thrawn what he wanted. Thrawn’s barely moving, but there’s no mistaking the subtle, tightly-controlled rocking of his hips, the way he drives himself down against Pellaeon’s fingers in search of contact. There’s no mistaking the fact that his hands are on Pellaeon’s chest at the same time, pushing him away. Thrawn doesn’t _know_ what he wants.

So he doesn’t get to make the decisions, Pellaeon decides, and he pins Thrawn’s hands above his head. 


	4. Chapter 4

Pellaeon enjoys the game they’re playing more than he lets on — the way Thrawn pretends to avoid him; the cool, forbidding mask he wears whenever Pellaeon comes close. He notices Rukh following the Grand Admiral more closely over the next week, wonders with amusement what Thrawn told him to pull him into their game so willingly, and then— 

—in the command room, when Pellaeon tries to touch Thrawn’s arm, he suddenly finds himself flat on his back.

“At ease, Rukh,” Thrawn says, his voice sounding far away. Pellaeon blinks up at the ceiling, waits for the shock of impact to fade, struggles to catch his breath. Rukh hit him so fast and so hard that he can’t tell where exactly he was struck — in the stomach, in the throat, in the chest? — only that for nearly a full minute, he can’t quite convince his lungs to expand.

He sees Rukh stalking past him around the time he manages to take a breath. When he sits up, dusts his uniform off, picks himself and his pride off the floor, he finds Thrawn sitting calmly in his command chair as if nothing has happened. Red eyes are fixed on the tactical display, his face unreadable.

“Sir,” says Pellaeon evenly, but without much volume. 

“It is Rukh’s duty to protect me,” says Thrawn. He matches Pellaeon’s even tone.

“From being touched by your own men?” Pellaeon says.

Thrawn’s eyes flick toward him; his face is impassive. “I believe he considers anyone who draws my blood to be a target.”

Silence stretches between them, makes the molecules in the air slow and seem to thicken. Pellaeon thinks for a moment that Thrawn is joking; it’s an option he finds himself unable to dismiss.

“He _knows_ about us?” Pellaeon asks finally, eyeing Rukh from across the room. Rukh stares right back at him unabashedly, his grey eyes narrowed, his face delivering an unspoken threat. There’s an almost imperceptible pause of contemplation before Thrawn answers. 

“He disapproves,” he says. With one hand cupping his chin in thought and his eyes fixed on the display, he adds almost absently, “He considers it an assault. As my bodyguard, it is his duty to ensure it doesn’t happen again.”

“An _assault_?” Pellaeon repeats with a snort. For a moment, the words seem foreign; they mean nothing to him. He ticks over Rukh’s possible reasoning. “Because of the bruises? The blood? Or because of our ranks?”

This time, he can’t ignore the silence or the closed-off expression on Thrawn’s face.

“Because you failed to ask before we started, I suppose,” Thrawn said, his voice measured. “And because I fought you.”

Pellaeon scoffs, turning his eyes back to Rukh. “I couldn’t assault you,” he says, amused by the thought. “As if you would let me do anything you didn’t want me to do.”

Thrawn says nothing for a moment. Finally, hesitating, he says, “Yes.” It’s not the resounding agreement Pellaeon expected; the tone throws him off for a moment, seems uncharacteristically — and _falsely_ — humble, as if Thrawn is downplaying his own iron will and cool competence, pretending as if he _could_ be overpowered for reasons Pellaeon can’t understand. What does he get out of an act like this? What does he get from surrendering their power structure, from submitting, from playing cold for days afterward — for pretending? He studies Thrawn, trying to find the answer, trying to understand the game, but the admiral’s face is as opaque to him as ever.

And across the room, Rukh stares at him as if he wants to eat Pellaeon alive.


	5. Chapter 5

He _likes_ it, Pellaeon thinks — likes to be defied, likes the spark of mutiny in Pellaeon’s eyes, to have his orders ignored and fingers twisted in his hair, to be brought to his knees. Even now, he struggles, but he doesn’t call Rukh into the fight; he doesn’t go still until Pellaeon’s teeth sink into his neck, not just hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to break skin.

The trickle of warm blood makes him stop fighting. His chest heaves, his breathing out of sync with Pellaeon’s; a tremor of tension goes through his thighs, his abs, but doesn’t coalesce into a struggle. Pellaeon could kill him like this, theoretically; in a way, he’s even threatening to, with his teeth positioned on the underside of Thrawn’s jaw, with the other man’s heartbeat pulsing against his lips. He can feel Thrawn’s chest beneath his hands, hard muscle and uncompromising bone, and thinks — a flare of out-of-place concern — _He’s lost weight._

But Thrawn’s eyes are flaring; there’s a dangerous gleam there, a cutting look that matches the sharpness of his jaw and cheekbones to a tee. In the face of that, all Pellaeon’s concern fades away.

The fighting, for Thrawn, is part of the fun. And the humiliation of a genuine defeat — of animalistic submission, being forced to change from predator to prey — is almost as necessary to him as air. There’s part of him — maybe the majority of him — that hates it; that much is obvious when he bares his teeth, when he gets that glint of rage in his eyes. But it’s always when he’s been beaten — when he’s pinned to the ground, on his back or on his stomach, throat bared and helpless to defend himself — that Pellaeon feels Thrawn’s cock hardening through his uniform.

Maybe this is the only way he can feel excited anymore. Maybe this kind of violence is the closest he can get to what he _really_ craves; maybe the way he reacts to Pellaeon’s body is tied to the way he goads C’baoth in full view of the bridge, or the risky maneuvers he takes in battle, or the way he volunteers himself for dangerous missions and walks right into traps.

There’s more than one soldier who likes the taste of adrenaline. There’s more than one soldier who mistakes the sting of death and injury for excitement. 

But there are parts of what they do together that Thrawn doesn’t make himself fight against — things Pellaeon can do without forcing him. Certain touches — certain ways of kissing him — even certain types of sex. There are times Thrawn doesn’t glower at him, moments when he actually leans into Pellaeon’s touch — pulls him closer — kisses him back.

It’s impossible to predict; sometimes it’s the rough kisses he leans into, like the teeth and blood are drawing him like a magnet. Sometimes it’s the gentle touches he fights against. Pellaeon gets the sense that Thrawn has waited for this, _wanted_ this, for a long time; that he’ll put up with anything so long as Pellaeon comes to him again the next day.

But other times, he gets the sense that Thrawn doesn’t want this — or him — at all.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s late, and Thrawn’s office is dim, the smell of dark liquor hanging in the air. He doesn’t glance up for more than a second when Pellaeon comes in; his eyes stay fixed on the artwork he’s collected for more than twenty minutes, as if somehow he can tell Pellaeon has nothing important to say, is only waiting for Thrawn to finish with his work so they can start.

The artwork troubles him; dark, distorted images of human men with faces that don’t quite align, mouths that gape open a little too far and wide; teeth that glimmer inside black pits like worms in a puddle of mud. He sees too many flashes of pale skin half-hidden in shadows — snatches of muscle tensed to the breaking point, dark tangles of hair; clenched fingers; drying blood.

Ancient Core World artwork, Pellaeon knows. He’s seen paintings just like these — well, less sensual, less violent — hanging in museums on Coruscant and Corellia; one of the images, and only one, is familiar to him. He remembers finding it in an artbook of his father’s when he was just a boy; remembers being fascinated by it for reasons he couldn’t explain. The dead man, drowned and nude, his limp body held in the arms of a comrade — his muscular thighs falling open as he's dragged back from the wreckage of his ship — the harsh features of his face softened by death, the flaccid cock on full display.

His heart beats faster as he looks at it again for the first time in more than fifty years. When Thrawn finally turns the holos off, Pellaeon can still see the after-image sparkling before his eyes, like an echo of blue dust. He steps back as Thrawn unfolds himself from the chair, follows him mutely into the chamber next door where a narrow cot serves as Thrawn’s bed on long nights like these.

Thrawn makes no invitations; nor does he raise an eyebrow or otherwise indicate that Pellaeon is doing something wrong by following him inside. He scarcely seems to notice Pellaeon’s presence as he crosses to his locker, unbuttons the collar of his tunic, opens the sealing strip.

Pellaeon says nothing; he watches as the tunic slips from Thrawn’s shoulders and down his arms, where he catches it in one hand and slides it onto a hanger. He watches as one broad blue hand skims down Thrawn’s abdomen, fingers curling in the little wrinkle of fabric where his undershirt is tucked into his pants. With a flick of the index finger, that undershirt comes loose; the hard lines of Thrawn’s hips and stomach and chest are revealed inch by inch; the undershirt itself is tossed into the laundry chute.

Pellaeon stays silent as Thrawn unbuckles his belt and slides it from the loops. He says nothing as Thrawn unbuttons his trousers, pulls them open to reveal the black V of his underwear, the waistband hanging from hips that seem to jut out more than they used to.

It’s only when Thrawn steps out of his trousers that Pellaeon speaks, starting with a snort and a shake of the head.

“You have no modesty,” he says. He’s surprised by the fondness in his voice, the warmth.

Thrawn turns to look at him just as his thumbs hook in the waistband of his underwear and pull them down. His entire body is on display with no hint of self-consciousness about him. But when he speaks, his voice is so sharp that it stings. 

“Why should there be modesty between us?” he asks.

When Pellaeon only blinks, unsure what Thrawn is trying to say, Thrawn says, “You want me to pretend we’ve never seen each other.” His eyes shift over Pellaeon’s face; his lips curl. “I don’t see the point,” he says.

His stance is uninviting, but not shy. He doesn’t hide himself; he doesn’t shrink away or shift his weight from foot to foot. He’s utterly confident here, almost hostile. His body language is sending a message Pellaeon doesn’t know how to read. He makes no attempt to disguise the fact that he’s looking at Thrawn’s cock, which hangs between his legs, soft and uninterested.

They aren’t in a relationship. Quick, rough sex does not equal a relationship; not when this is the first time Pellaeon has ever seen Thrawn fully naked, not when they’ve never called each other by anything other than their ranks. He’s torn Thrawn’s clothes open just enough to fuck him; he’s seen slivers of skin, sometimes hot beneath his hands and sometimes cold, but never before has he seen Thrawn like this.

His throat is dry; his heart races. There _should_ be modesty, he thinks — shouldn’t there? There should be shyness; there should be a discussion; there should be a hundred steps between what they’ve already done and what they’re doing now. But Thrawn is glaring at him almost like this is a challenge — or like he’s gotten tired of strafing runs and now he’s going for a full orbital attack. 

But what does he expect Pellaeon to do? What does he want?

Pellaeon steps forward slowly; the fight has changed, the enemy’s moves are now unpredictable. He raises his hand, touches Thrawn’s cheek even as Thrawn glares at him. He feels the delicate bones of Thrawn’s face beneath his hand, the hollow of his cheek, the line of his jaw and soft warmth of his lips. His skin seems paper-thin, like it might tear open if he presses down hard enough, snags the edge of Thrawn's cheekbone just right.

“Have you eaten today?” he asks, his voice coming out in a murmur. “Or has it just been caf and alcohol again?”

His hand slips down from Thrawn’s jaw to his throat; he closes his fingers in a grip that’s firm but not tight and watches those hard red eyes slide closed. These are the questions that have been nagging at Pellaeon for weeks now, ever since they started — the questions he’s always stopped himself from asking. He squeezes lightly, feels the column of Thrawn’s throat shifting as he swallows against the pressure.

“Don’t tell me you’re doing it to get my attention,” says Pellaeon, and at that, Thrawn’s eyes open again to look at him in disdain. He trails his free hand over Thrawn’s hip, rubs the pad of his thumb over a slim cut there — the lines of flesh parted by a sharpened knife, the wound cleaned but not yet treated. “Or is this what you do when you miss me?” Pellaeon asks, digging his nail into the wound.

He can picture Thrawn drawing the knifeblade over his hip just so — deep enough to hurt, to bleed, but shallow enough to heal. He can see Thrawn spread out on his back in bed, his thighs trembling, one hand wrapped around his cock, the other hand digging into this cut until his fingers are smeared with blood. The dull ache of it, the little flares of pain, an imperfect simulation of how it feels when Pellaeon grabs him by the hips so hard it leaves him bruised.

He runs the edge of his thumb along Thrawn’s jaw, the touch light and teasing. And then, when Thrawn still doesn’t answer, he squeezes tighter still, until he hears Thrawn’s breath catch in his throat, watches Thrawn’s eyes squeeze closed again. 

Glances down, sees Thrawn’s cock lying thick against his thigh.

“I’m flattered,” Pellaeon says, and without releasing his grip on Thrawn’s throat, he guides him to the bed.


	7. Chapter 7

The whispering is in a language Pellaeon doesn’t understand — perhaps Rukh’s, since his guttural voice can be heard responding now and then, or perhaps Thrawn’s, if he ever deigned to teach it to his bodyguard. Pellaeon makes his way down the hall slowly, stops with his ear to the door outside Thrawn’s quarters; he knows Rukh can smell him, that Thrawn most likely knows he’s here, but he doesn’t go in, and the conversation doesn’t stop. 

He hears his name; Thrawn’s modulated voice, so soft and unbothered, plays like a melody against Rukh’s harsh tones. One calls him ‘Pellaeon,’ the other ‘Gilad,’ and Pellaeon doesn’t know what to think about that. He doesn’t hear a pause or shift in the conversation, but there must be some sort of agreement — he thinks — some sort of concession, because a moment later the door thrums to life beneath his palms and slides open with a hiss. 

It's early morning; Thrawn is only half-dressed, half-awake, his legs bare and his shirt open; he doesn’t seem to care that Rukh is standing before him, watching him prepare for the day; nor does he care that Pellaeon has entered the room as well. His head angles toward Pellaeon only briefly; his eyes wash over him in a cool greeting. 

“Captain,” he says as he does up the buttons on his shirt. There are dark swaths of discoloration over his hips and throat, abrasions on his ribs, thin red lines on his bare thighs. A set of knives and razor blades is laid out on his bedside table, each shining piece of steel or crystal glimmering in the light. In an instant — from the muted tension between Rukh and Thrawn, the whispers in an alien tongue, the fresh, still-healing wounds that have nothing to do with him standing out on Thrawn’s blue skin — Pellaeon knows what the conversation was about.

He sneaks a glance at Rukh, observes the tightness of his jaw, the flinty expression in his eyes. Does he really believe that taking Thrawn’s knives away will change this? He sees anger there, a hint of blame, feels a defensive surge of rage well up to meet it.

“Leave us for a moment, Rukh,” Thrawn says, combing his fingers through mussed hair. The Noghri collects the knives first, folding them up in a leather roll before he leaves. He seems to grow larger as he walks past Pellaeon, tension and rage vibrating off his skin, making his shadow longer. 

But he doesn’t say a word, and with another hiss of the door, Thrawn and Pellaeon are alone.

“He claims,” says Thrawn quietly, fingering the hem of his shirt, “that the scent of my blood is distasteful to him.”

There’s a note of amusement in his voice. The split skin on his thighs is still red, the cuts still raw. His cock is half-hard in a forgotten, disinterested way that makes Pellaeon think perhaps Rukh interrupted something before his argument with Thrawn. 

“You don’t believe him?” Pellaeon asks. He tilts his head, remembers something Thrawn said to him recently. “You told me he sees anyone who spills your blood as a target.”

“I don’t believe that sentiment extends to myself,” says Thrawn, voice dry. He splays his fingers down the hard muscle of his thigh, brushes his thumb over the areas where a knife blade has parted his skin. It must sting to touch them, especially so clinically, but his face is placid — no flinching, no signs of pain. He looks at his wounds like they’re something consecrate, with a reverence normally reserved for art. “Besides,” he says absently, “Rukh likes the scent of my blood.”

“You said he finds it distasteful,” Pellaeon says, mouth dry. He wonders how it would taste — Thrawn’s blood against his tongue. 

_“He_ said he finds it distasteful,” Thrawn says, voice mild. “Rukh _is_ capable of lying, Captain.” His tone dips, lower, rougher, like ruined velvet tipping out of his mouth. “Just like us.”

 _Captain_ , he says. Not Gilad.

“Just like us?” Pellaeon asks, eyebrows raised.

Thrawn pulls his trousers on — no underwear, as if he’s already planning for later — with a ghost of a smile on his lips. He tucks his shirt between the fabric of his trousers and his bare cock, hiding the outline of it from Pellaeon’s view. With an unexpected frankness on his face, he shrugs his tunic on, meets Pellaeon’s eyes. 

“You keep a vibroblade in your left boot,” he says. He steps forward, palm out, tunic unsealed. It takes Pellaeon only a moment to weigh the consequences in his mind; he crouches down, removes the blade from its sheath, places it in Thrawn’s hand. 

Dry-mouthed, he watches as Thrawn switches the vibration on and off, then slides the edge over his palm. There’s a half-second pause where the cut appears totally bloodless — just a blue-tinged rift in Thrawn’s skin — and then it wells up out of him, a thin line of red from the start of his index finger all the way down to the opposite edge of his palm. 

“What about you?” Thrawn murmurs, his eyes on the fresh wound. “Do you find it distasteful?”

Pellaeon doesn’t — can’t — respond. His chest is moving up and down as shallowly as possible while still breathing; he stares mutely at the cut, entranced less by its existence and more by the possibilities, by the question of what Thrawn will do next. 

He watches Thrawn raise the wounded hand to his lips, watches his tongue swipe over the cut, lap up the blood. Doesn’t move as Thrawn’s other hand twists gently in his hair, as Thrawn steps forward — hips touching, heat transferring from one body to the other, chests moving in sync — and claims Pellaeon’s lips. His tongue tastes of copper, the same way a human’s blood would taste, and he doesn’t bite — their teeth don’t clash — the kiss stays gentle and warm and calm.

Thrawn pulls away, goes to the fresher and back before Pellaeon has stopped catching his breath. He’s pulled out of his thoughts by the sight of Thrawn bandaging his injured palm — not using bacta, not trying to hide it.

“Seal my tunic for me?” Thrawn says softly, his face unreadable. 

He moves his arms as Pellaeon steps forward, working around him to wrap the bandage while Pellaeon grabs the sealing strip and tugs it upward. They're close enough that even with Thrawn's arms open like this, it's almost like an embrace. His knuckles brush against Thrawn’s neck when he reaches the collar, but by then, Thrawn has his hand bandaged and takes over, his expression not changing as he bats Pellaeon’s hands away. 

And now he’s dressed, and now his hand is bandaged, and there’s nothing to keep them here, but Pellaeon doesn’t move away. He watches Thrawn’s face, waits for the closed-off dignity to flicker, to change — however briefly — into something else.

Nerves. Anticipation. 

He leans forward, heart thudding. He hears the click of a button and the hum of the vibroblade and leans away again, tries to read the hardening in Thrawn’s eyes.

“I didn’t—” he begins.

The chirp of Thrawn’s comlink interrupts him. The hardness doesn’t fade. The vibroblade sings between them, unignorable, as Thrawn scans Pellaeon's face. What he's searching for, Pellaeon doesn't know, but he stands still, holds his breath, waits for the vibroblade to turn off again, for Thrawn to hand it back.

He doesn't.

“I’m wanted on the bridge,” Thrawn says.


	8. Chapter 8

By the time he regains his composure post-climax, there are three shallow scratches right beneath his eye. He presses his palm against them as he climbs to his feet, feels a bead of blood compress and break into a warm, wet smear beneath his hand. These cuts will need bacta, he thinks, but he’ll leave the various aches and pains as they are, let them form into bruises. Echoes of Thrawn’s touch to keep him occupied throughout the day.

On the bed, half-covered by a tangle of sheets, Thrawn’s eyes are still closed, his face a mixture of exhaustion and pain. He hasn’t yet taken his arms down from above his head, where Pellaeon pinned them; it’s like he doesn’t realize Pellaeon is gone. His hair is still tangled and damp from sweat, his legs still spread as if he can feel Pellaeon’s weight between his thighs.

Pellaeon watches him, savors the sight — Thrawn catching his breath, Thrawn overwhelmed, Thrawn undone — considers saying something just so he can see how Thrawn reacts to the sound of his voice. In the end, he goes to the ‘fresher without saying a word, keeps the door open as he raids the medkit there for bacta. He’s cleaning the cuts beneath his eye when he sees Thrawn blink up at the ceiling, looking soft and dazed; he’s swiping orange bacta lotion over the last cut by the time Thrawn shifts as if coming awake, closes his thighs, straightens the sheets around him, covers his face with his hands.

In silence, Pellaeon exits the ‘fresher. He’s searching for his boots when he hears the rustle of fabric on skin, the cheap mattress shifting on its plastisteel frame.

“Stay,” Thrawn says.

Pellaeon pauses, looks closely at Thrawn — the sharp edge of his cheekbone, bleeding somewhat from where Pellaeon smashed his head against the wall when they first got started; the possessive little bruises marking his neck and collar bones; the way his hair falls over his forehead; the dark shadows beneath his eyes. 

“You want me to stay?” Pellaeon asks.

The words come out with a smile laced through them; not the way he wanted to ask it, not how he wanted to sound. He swallows the smile, feels an almost frightening sobriety spread over his face from the top down.

“Thrawn?” he says, and now his voice is low, and he doesn’t like the tremble in it any more than he liked the smile. 

It takes Thrawn too long to answer. His face is not expressionless — there are these subtle flexes of muscle here and there, at the corner of his eye, his lips; and his gaze shifts up and down as he studies Pellaeon, and surely there’s something there that counts as an expression, but still, Pellaeon can’t quite read him. He feels naked, even though he’s fully dressed. 

“Why should you go?” Thrawn asks eventually; his tone is as opaque as his expressions. He watches Pellaeon half a second longer, then takes hold of the sheets and lifts them up enough so he can shift backward on the mattress without twisting them around his hips. He stops only when his back is up against the bulkhead, leaving half the bed free.

“Someone might see me leaving,” Pellaeon says through numb lips. He moves slowly, kicking off the boots he hasn’t bothered to tie yet. One of Thrawn’s shoulders rises in a stiff and lazy shrug.

“Someone might have seen us a dozen times,” he murmurs. “Now it bothers you?”

Pellaeon doesn’t know what to say. He hooks a finger in his socks and pulls them off one by one. “Thought it might bother _you,”_ he says.

Thrawn doesn’t answer him; he has one arm thrown over his eyes, as if to block out the light, but his jaw is tense, not relaxed. There’s no sound in the room except the rustle of Pellaeon’s clothes as he takes them off, resists the urge to let them fall to the floor, hangs them side-by-side with Thrawn’s uniforms. He stares into the wardrobe for longer than he’d like to admit, eyes caught on the olive-green of his tunic next to the stark white of Thrawn’s, his throat tight, his chest constricted.

“Rukh—” he starts, not turning around, and he flinches when something soft hits him in the small of the back. He turns in time to see the pillow hit the floor. “Did you—?”

“Come to bed,” says Thrawn, his voice cold and hard, his eyes no longer covered. His jaw is tighter than ever; he seems to be biting the inside of his cheek, holding back what he really wants to say. He’s sitting up now, his shoulders a tense line, and as Pellaeon approaches the bed, Thrawn watches him with a wound-up wariness, like an animal injured and trapped in a corner.

At the edge of the bed, Pellaeon hesitates. Takes in Thrawn’s blazing eyes, the brittle tension running up and down his arms, the slow and shallow movement of his chest. It seems too immediate, too raw. The bruises stand out starkly against Thrawn’s skin; the fresh cuts, these ones patterned into intricate if small designs, pull Pellaeon’s eyes toward them and make him feel ill, even though earlier — when he’d traced them first with his fingers, then with his tongue — he’d felt nothing but excitement. He turns away, heart beating fast, tries to distract himself. Grabs an undershirt and pair of underwear from Thrawn’s drawers, takes his time selecting the ‘right’ pair even though they’re all identical, turns around again only when he can hear something other than his own heartbeat again.

Thrawn seems to have deflated while Pellaeon’s back was turned. He catches the little bundle of clothing with both hands when Pellaeon tosses it his way.

“Unless you prefer to sleep naked,” Pellaeon says. He’s wearing his undershirt and boxers himself. He watches Thrawn unfold each article of clothing; he clasps them loosely in his hands and stares at them in puzzlement, as if he doesn’t know what they are. His eyes are far away.

“You want me to dress?” Thrawn says, and his voice is so soft that Pellaeon almost doesn’t hear him. He doesn’t answer; shrugs slightly, but Thrawn doesn’t glance at him in time to see it, and Pellaeon resists the urge to repeat the gesture. 

He watches Thrawn’s face harden, his hands clench into fists. He watches the tension fade again, leaving him looking drained.

Thrawn tosses the clothing back at him.

“Put it away,” he says, sounding as exhausted as he looks. “Just come to bed.”

The drawer shrieks against its track as Pellaeon pushes it back in. His senses are overwhelmed by what comes next: a rustle of sheets and blankets — warm skin brushing Pellaeon’s hand — the hard planes of Thrawn’s back pressed against him, flattening his undershirt against his abs. The lights go out with a murmur; he can feel Thrawn’s muscles, hard and alert, wherever he touches; brushes a hand through Thrawn’s hair just to feel something soft. After a moment with no response, he gives up, rests his hand on Thrawn’s ribs.

He doesn’t know what to think when Thrawn’s hand snakes up and covers his, pulls it down until his palm is flat against Thrawn’s stomach, their fingers intertwined. He can feel the heat of Thrawn’s skin, the slow and measured pattern of his breathing. It’s like a mimicry of an embrace, both of them too tense to find it relaxing; Pellaeon catches himself halfway holding his breath, trying to sync his breathing up with Thrawn’s — with a pattern too strained to be copied.

“You don’t like this,” he says.

Thrawn pretends not to hear. He falls asleep perhaps twenty minutes later — surprisingly quickly — but he barely relaxes at all, and over the course of the night, Pellaeon’s doze is interrupted more than once by a sudden surge of tension as Thrawn comes awake again, stops breathing, goes still in his arms.

Touches Pellaeon’s hand. Seems to remember who he is, why he’s here. Breathes out. Relaxes again.

 _Exile,_ Pellaeon thinks, the word coming out of nowhere, like someone has whispered it in his ear. Everything clicks into place. He doesn’t blame Thrawn for asking now; he wonders instead why it took so long — what he did wrong — what impression he gave to make Thrawn put off such a simple request, when it’s been clear from the onset that he finds Pellaeon attractive, wants him close, craves his touch. Maybe anyone’s touch, but Pellaeon’s especially. 

Is it his own pride that makes him stay quiet? Is it Rukh’s disapproval? 

He thinks of Thrawn’s hands on his chest, pushing him away. He thinks of Thrawn parting his legs willingly, pulling Pellaeon down for a kiss, only to snarl in pain and start fighting all over again in the middle of the act — his knee impacting against Pellaeon’s ribs, his hands becoming hard as iron around Pellaeon’s wrists. 

He turns the concept of Thrawn’s pride around, looks at it from a different angle. Examines Rukh’s disapproval, too. Wonders what type of distasteful things Thrawn might put up with to get what he wants.

His heart beats faster; wide awake, he pulls Thrawn closer, listens to his even breathing. 

He waits for his morning alarm to ring.


	9. Chapter 9

“You’d tell me what you want,” says Pellaeon. He doesn’t make it a question, doesn’t give Thrawn the option to say no. He gestures to the bedroom, makes it clear what he means.

Thrawn’s eyes stay fixed on the tactical display. His hands are clasped behind his back; he smells of alcohol, hasn’t said more than three words since Pellaeon came in.

So Pellaeon steps forward, gets his attention. He swivels the tactical display to face the other wall; when he grabs Thrawn’s arm, fingers closing lightly over his sleeve, Thrawn turns to face him, leans into the warmth.

“You’d tell me?” Pellaeon asks. This time, he can’t help but make it a question. 

Thrawn studies him. His eyes flicker down from Pellaeon’s eyes to his lips; his face is closed-off, unreadable. He doesn’t shake Pellaeon’s hand off his arm.

“You know what I want,” Thrawn says, eyes burning into Pellaeon’s. He leans forward; a quick kiss, soft and chaste. Thrawn’s lips are cold; he tastes of something stronger than ale. “The same thing you want,” he says as he pulls away.

Pellaeon thinks of Thrawn’s body pinned beneath his, opening for him, submitting to him. He thinks of Thrawn fighting back futilely, baring his throat when he realizes there’s no point; Pellaeon taking whatever embarrassment Thrawn throws at him on the bridge and paying it back tenfold, silencing every sharp word with a kiss— 

Thrawn eating no more than the bare minimum he needs to stay conscious on the bridge, the gnaw of hunger biting at his ribs, steadily refusing to give in. He thinks of alcohol calming the swirl of alien emotions in Thrawn’s mind, numbing them, making them manageable. He thinks of Thrawn refusing to shake hands with Imperial diplomats, carefully selecting who gets to touch him and who doesn’t.

And who he touches in return.

“Control,” Pellaeon says.

Thrawn almost smiles. 


End file.
